Snapshots
by wildswede
Summary: Ninth vignette up, sexual theme warning, not graphic and hopefully tasteful.
1. Little Stella in the Night

**Just a thought I had one night after binge-watching The Fall. Obviously, the characters are not mine, just borrowing them for a bit.**

" _Little Stella, in the night… make you his? If he didn't, you sure as hell wanted him to."_

Spector's confidence in his assessment of the writings he had perverted sent Stella into a private tailspin she only barely kept from bubbling out of her. Had she not spent years perfecting and strengthening her personal walls she may have fled from the interrogation room, ran frantically down the hallway toward the nearest bathroom and left that breakfast she didn't eat in the bowl. No, she would wait until she was in the privacy of her now tainted hotel room before she'd allow herself to break down, vomit, and then head for the pool to shed the slimy feeling Spector seemed to radiate. She had him though, with those vile words, she knew she had him and she didn't even need to deny them. He thought he knew her; thought he was smarter and could psycho-analyze her out of her well-kept shell. He was wrong. She could see how someone might come to the conclusion that Spector had, that her father had violated her in the most sickening possible way a father could violate his child. It was wrong, though, to try to enrage her emotions and make her react like he did, like a wild animal. If he had his own emotions as in check as he believed he did, he would have realized. No, her daddy had never hurt her, not like that, but in the same way that Spector hurt his own daughter, his Olivia. Should she strike back and tell him that she, Stella, was what Olivia would be in thirty-five years' time? It was tempting, but she didn't, she wouldn't.

Olivia, who just wanted to protect her daddy, no matter what. For Stella, she may have been watching her younger self; lying straight faced to the police. She had truly thought they believed her when she'd been there, the officer she was now realized they'd seen through her attempts to protect him without any question. No, she was the one with the insight because she'd been Olivia, she could break him with very little if she wanted to and she enjoyed that power. No, Daddy never fucked her, just as sweet Olivia was not a victim to Spector, she was not a victim to her father. However, Daddy did like toying with the dark-haired ladies in the night, and he'd come home, smelling like soap and chlorine to kiss her face after he was done. How many times had Spector done just that, crept quietly into Olivia's room, his heart still pounding from the murder he'd committed, watch her for several moments, smooth her blonde hair, kiss her forehead, straighten the covers… Just like Olivia's daddy, Stella's daddy had been a sado-masochistic serial murderer of dark-haired women who thought his blonde haired little girl had hung the moon.


	2. Barren Spinster

Her knees felt bruised and she thought she may have dislocated a rib by the time the dry-heaving finally stopped and she felt it was safe to rise, flush the toilet, rinse her mouth. She caught her own eyes in her reflection in the mirror as she used a too-white hotel towel to pat her face dry; bloodshot and shiny with unshed tears. Those tears finally flooded over, as tended to happen when she allowed herself to get lost in her brokenness. It was a pattern, like the rest of her life, she depended on her routines so much that even a meltdown had that predictability. First, a cold detachment where she did what she needed to do until she was in a safe place away from prying eyes. Then, she would be sick, vomiting violently until she had burst blood vessels in her face and was nearly crippled by searing pain in her rib cage and back. Only after she'd cleaned herself up would the tears finally come like a reckoning: ugly, bone-shaking, gut-wrenching sobs. When she'd cried herself dry, she slipped back into her resolve and pulled on her swimming costume to completely exhaust herself in some pool somewhere. Then, collapse, sweet, sweet surrender to sleep, a sleep where she would not dream.

What had brought the icy Stella Gibson to her knees? Paul Spector, but not in the way one might think. It hadn't been his crimes, horrifying as they were. Not his taunting of her. Not his invasion of her hotel room and her dream diary. Not his insinuation that her father had fucked her as a child. No, it was just two little words: _barren spinster._ Stella Gibson was a barren spinster and couldn't possible understand how a parent felt toward their children or any other child. The ache that had started when Reed had asked her if she had children became unbearable with Spector's crass assessment of her life. She knew all too well, the agony that children bring, how their innocent faces can slash into a person's heart so thoroughly, you feel like all your blood has gone out of you and taken your soul with it...

Once upon a time Stella Hope Gibson had been the center of her father's world and he had been hers. When he passed a feeling like drowning swept over her, bringing with it a strong fear of abandonment like she'd never experienced before, having just assumed her whole life that he'd be there whenever she needed or wanted him to be. But he was gone and she didn't like the feeling of vulnerability that came with losing. Stella had always been a strong girl… independent to a fault… bossy, her teachers called her. But, this was the first time she intentionally worked to build the walls around her heart to guard her from this feeling of loss, loneliness, and abandonment she felt. Turns out, she was good at building walls, emotional walls, so much so that co-workers nicknamed her Ice Queen- princess being too sweet for the untouchable Stella.

Then there was Dean Barrett, he was handsome in an arrogant way, the type Stella hated. But, he wanted her and Dean Barrett was not someone who was easily put off by a blonde with a bad attitude and foul mouth… it just made him more determined to have her. He knew how to work slowly, engaging Stella in casual conversation, learning her habits… her hurts… her hang-ups. He developed his interest from friendship to something undefinable to Stella with a single wild flower dropped on her desk or an iced tea waiting for her after a mind-numbing long meeting. Eventually, he convinced her to go to dinner with him… a film… a day at the shore… a night in his bed. He had her, all of her. And, she had something of his, a piece of him that he'd left within her during one of their numerous nights together. She was pregnant when he convinced her to marry him. True to his nature, once Dean Barrett had what he desired, he no longer wanted it, he no longer wanted her.

For two weeks after agreeing to marry him, Stella heard nothing of nor from Dean Barrett, she was confused and emotional, two feelings she resented. When he finally sought her out again she'd been sitting in a small diner alone, finally no longer a slave to morning sickness, attacking a burger with extra pickles.

"Geez, Stella, don't you think you should lay off the burgers?" He sounded utterly disgusted with her behavior. Stella paused, shocked, almost throwing the meal back on her plate. Logically, she knew she didn't look fat, didn't even look pregnant for that matter, with the baggy t-shirt and slacks she wore. She'd been violently ill for three months, losing ten pounds off her already slight frame. The month that had passed since the constant nausea finally ceased had only been enough to put half of that ten pounds back on. Still, she never ate another burger in public since then, opting for "cleaner" choices like salads or grilled chicken or fish and vegetables. If she wanted a burger, she waited til she was behind a locked door and all alone before indulging.

It'd taken Dean Barrett and his arrogance over a year to make Stella his creature… and only a few weeks to completely destroy her with sudden cruelty. She'd cried, hard, for more than a day, then remembered something from her anthropology courses. The Mosou women of China, living in matrilineal society, controlled the men in their lives with a sexual prowess that Stella envied and decided she appreciated. So, she rebuilt the walls, stronger this time, love was for family and friends. She knew she was capable of affection without commitment, on her terms, the only hurdle in her future was the child that just grew bigger and stronger every day.

Stella ran for the hills… actually, the opposite, being from a smaller city in the north of England, she headed for the large metropolis of London. A month before she was due to deliver her new midwife informed her that she was beginning to show the physical signs of impending labour. It would be alright, even a month early, the child would very likely be fine and as a first time mother, those signs might just make a liar of the midwife. It didn't compute until three days later when Stella awoke gasping for breath from a sharp, ripping pain deep in her abdomen. Something was very wrong, whether or not this was her first time didn't matter, Stella had dutifully read the information packets and books recommended by the midwife. These were not rhythmic cramps, not contractions, this was searing, tearing, frightening pain that didn't end.

She braced herself and tossed back her covers, doing so her eyes and skin coordinated together that her legs her covered in her own blood that was still coming heavily. The pain wasn't the only reason for her lightheadedness and she reached for the phone beside her bed. Dialing 999 she worked her way to the door to unlatch it for the paramedics, she had a sinking feeling she should not wait for a knock, that it may be too late for her if she did. Sure enough, the darkness descended as the operator asked her if she could hear the sirens, reassuring her that help was close, just a couple more minutes…

"Stella? Stella, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand."

All she could do was whimper, the pain was joined by a crushing sensation and pressure in a place that scared her. She wanted to scream and would have been had she the energy to do so.

"Stella? You've got to push. Push, sweetheart, help your baby so we can help you."

There was no way, she couldn't put together enough consciousness to open her eyes, let alone intentionally concentrate her energy into pushing into the pressure coming down around her center.

"You're almost there Stella, stay with us, just a little more… Keep that pitocin going… She's going to need more blood and platelets. You! Call the lab and get blood up here!"

There was something like a rushing sensation and then relief, followed by darkness, the announcement that it was a boy barely reached Stella's ears before she let herself float away in the dark.

All too soon, there was pain again, irritating cramps that just kept coming every few minutes. Stella pried her own eyes open and took in her surroundings. A slight stinging in her hand alerted her to the IV where a few different substances flowed directly into her veins. There one red and a couple of clear. Between her legs hurt like nothing she could describe; ache? bruise? sting? burn? stabbing? There wasn't a word and her ears started ringing with anxiety as she fumbled for the call button.

"Ms. Gibson, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

Nurse Obvious was lucky Stella was pretty much tied down and in way too much pain to respond with much more than a pathetic groan. Nurse Obvious used a spare port in the IV to add something to Stella's bloodstream that had to be magical, Stella thought.

"This is morphine, give it a moment, it should start working very quickly."

A quiet rap at the door announced the midwife, a sad look on her face as she approached Stella's side. The baby, the baby must not have made it through the traumatic delivery.

"Actually, we were able to get him back, he's in the NICU. However, the most recent tests show limited to no brain function. Stella, your placenta tore away from the uterine wall. It's not a completely uncommon occurrence, partial abruptions can happen with little to no ill effect on the fetus. But, Stella, you had a complete abruption, a complete tearing away of the placenta that left your son without a source of oxygen for an undetermined amount of time."

Her breath was caught somewhere between her lungs and mouth. She'd not been overjoyed upon discovering her pregnancy, but she hadn't wanted the child to die.

"If you'd like to hold him until he passes, I can bring him to you."

Stella didn't know why she did, but she'd pulled off the hospital gown covering her and settled the tiny boy on her bare chest, pulling the covers over them both. She was still, only breathing and stroking the soft, downy curls that covered the child's head. Frederick Gibson, named for his grandfather, managed to open his eyes just once to stare into his mother's identical blue eyes and silently forgive her for his short life.

Two weeks later, having refused the wheelchair escort, Stella Gibson left the hospital a barren spinster with her shoulders back, eyes forward, and a purposeful stride.


	3. The Beginning

Frederick Gibson was shocked only once in his life; it wasn't his own depravity, or the way he saw other people as objects that bothered him, how could it? It was the when he saw something other than a chess piece, a pawn to be played and manipulated, in another human being. In fact, each and every time he saw his daughter he was afraid, and holding her nearly killed him. Helen was planning to give the baby up for adoption and he was fine with that, giving no more thought to the child than he gave the kittens he'd drowned as a young boy. His fatal mistake had come in picking up the phone when Helen called to tell him the creature had been born, a girl and he needed to come to the hospital to sign away his parental rights. Unfortunately, the open window of the nursery could not be avoided on his way to the social worker's office, he'd intended not to glance over, to look straight ahead as he passed, but then his nose began to itch and he turned his head slightly to meet his hand and saw her.

He knew she was his the moment his eyes locked on hers, most of the newborns were sleeping, a couple whimpering pathetically, but one was awake and quiet, staring intently at the stranger who suddenly stopped like he'd been struck by lightning. That was how the social worker came upon him, staring as if in a trance at the tiny girl.

"I see you've found her, Mr. Gibson. You know, you can take custody of your daughter, her mother has already signed the papers, but if you'd like to step up… Well, it's always nice to see fathers take responsibility."

Oh, yuck, the social worker was an equal opportunity parenting rights activist who'd decided that men were the reason there were so many unwanted children.

"Perhaps, I'd like to see her closer."

"Of course, come with me."

They'd gone through the doors behind the nursery and the social worker quickly explained to the nurse on duty that he was Baby Girl Gibson's father and would like to see her. The nurse settled him into a wooden rocking chair and disappeared, returning moments later with a small bundle of blankets. He hadn't really meant he wanted to _hold_ the thing, just _look_ at it. But, there he was, with two women smiling sappy smiles and a little girl with stars in her eyes in his arms. The women left him alone and he stood with the child- now personified in his eyes, walking to a window that looked out into the night.

"You see those twinkly lights out there? Those are stars, just like the ones you've got in your eyes. I'm a son of a bitch and a bastard and you'd be better off in the bin than with me, but I'm also a selfish fuck and I'm keeping you, little star. Shining, little star… my Stella."

"I've killed people for a lot less than what you're doing right now, you know that?"

They were harsh words, but spoken in a gentle voice. Colic. Stella had colic. Frederick Gibson, who had tortured squirrels and girls alike was beside himself, if Stella had been anyone other than Stella, he would have hurled her against the wall by now in temper. But, as it was, even that thought passing through his mind made him feel sick and prompted him to apologize to the screaming child who somehow extended his normally limited patience to unfathomable depths he normally didn't even reach when occupied with a "project". He needed to get out of the house. He tossed wrapped a blanket around them both and headed out the door. He needed a swim, he decided, and headed for the pool he hadn't visited in two months that had once been where he'd spent a fair part of his day as he schemed and dreamed about the next "project". He managed to change into the spare bathers he kept in a locker while juggling the still hysterical Stella as her wails echoed off the walls of the changing room and made other patrons stare and wince.

Ordinarily he would have dove in and swam hard as he could; this time, he eased into the shallow end feet first, clutching his burden. As he let himself fall into a back float, the horrible, echoing screams faded so quickly, he jumped back up on his feet, afraid he'd drowned the child. Stella screeched at being jerked from the water, he lay back again and observed the immediate silence, chuckling. So simple, they'd both been suffering for nearly two months and all he'd need to do was go swimming?

"Oh, Stella, welcome to your new home away from home."


	4. Stella, All Alone

It was dark and silent when Stella woke, gasping and near tears from another nightmare she couldn't ever remember. She tumbled from her canopy bed and flew to Daddy's room for the comfort of his warm, sleeping-Daddy smell.

"Daddy? I had a bad dream, can I get in with you? Please?"

Nothing… Now that the pounding in her chest was slowing down she noticed that the bed was flat, no sleepy, warm, snuggly Daddy under the covers. Daddy must have had to go out again, he sometimes did in the night and Nanny would be softly snoring in the spare bedroom. Nanny would let her in bed, Stella thought, her nanny was a nice nanny, not like Sara Sperry's nanny who told her not to be a silly infant and go back to her room after Sara had a bad dream. Daddy wouldn't stand for anyone denying his sweet little star.

"Nanny? I'm scared, Daddy's gone. Nanny?"

No Nanny. No Daddy. Just Stella, all alone. She stood in the hallway for several moments, stunned. Her fear rose again and she ran for her bedroom, slamming the door behind her, locking it, diving under the satiny pink duvet, and bit her lip to keep from crying.

It felt like forever when she heard the door open and then close, her heart stopped for a moment in sheer terror before she heard familiar steps on the stairs. Daddy's home! She bounded from the safety of her locked room and nearly knocked him over as she flung herself into his arms.

"Daddy! Where were you? I had a bad dream, and you weren't there and Nanny wasn't there, and I was so scared Daddy!"

"It's alright little star, I'm here. I'm sorry, darling. I had to go out for a bit, emergency at work."

"But, why didn't Nanny come then?"

"She couldn't come, sweetheart."

Truth was that Nanny was getting suspicious of the frequent late nights and was asking too many questions for Frederick Gibson's liking. So, he'd taken a risk, he knew that this was a possibility, Stella waking in the night from one of her all too common nightmares and needing him; only to find that he was gone and she was alone. It was time to re-evaluate his technique, he'd done so before and done so many times since Stella was born. He almost laughed out loud at how that would sound to a psychiatrist, his daughter made him a more refined killer.

"You are such a big, brave girl Stella… you really don't need Nanny anymore, do you?"

"I… I guess not, Daddy. I can be brave enough."

Even if the thought of waking again in the dark and finding she was all alone terrified her, Stella wasn't a baby and if being brave made Daddy proud of her, then she'd learn to be brave.

"I know you can… you already are, little star. Come on then, let's get you snuggled back to bed."

He scooped her up, softly humming Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star… her song; Stella was only half aware of leaving her father's arms for the cool satin of her bedding. Frederick Gibson dropped a kiss onto his daughter's soft cheek before retreating to the sanctity of his study to re-live the thrill of the night's activities.


	5. The Beginning of the End

Detective Noel Hart couldn't believe it when the results from the finger-print database finally arrived. It couldn't be, it just couldn't. He wracked his brain for tell-tale signs, for evidence that could have pointed this direction before now… and, they fell into place, leaving him wide-eyed and ashen. Years… years of unsolved murders had just been solved and he felt no relief. Twenty-four women over twenty-four years, one a year, now he had him, the killer. He knew what had to be done and he'd be able to do it, Detective Hart was about to take his own partner into custody: Detective Frederick Gibson.

He knew, by the heavy footfalls nearing the locker room that life was about to change. He knew the steps were Noel's and he knew they meant trouble and heartache, they'd been partners for some twenty years now and he recognized the difference in his partner's gait when something weighed heavily on him. He looked up as a familiar shadow fell across the floor, striking up the wall.

"What is it then, Hart?"

"There's been a break in a case, a big break, one that's going to lead to an arrest."

"Which case? The Molly Bracken case?"

Molly Bracken had been six years old when she disappeared along the three blocks between her best friend's house and her own home. Four weeks of only dead end leads had culminated in her body being shipped in a box back to her own doorstep. The case had the makings of one that could easily continue, ritualistic, well-planned and executed, and they were desperate to get a break to stop any further desecration of childhood.

"No… unfortunately, no."

"Well, then, are we going to play 20 Questions all day when we could be bringing a killer to justice?"

"It's a series of cases really… Operation Soltice."

If Det. Gibson faltered for a moment, it wasn't noticeable.

"Really?"

"Mmm… yes, the killer seems have gotten sloppy with this year's slaying. The lab picked up a fingerprint."

"Not unusual, bodies often have prints on them. The person who makes the initial discovery, family members, careless investigators, photographers… you know how it goes."

"Yes, well, not many family members leave a partial thumb on a loved one's eyeball."

"Very true, well, Noel, shall we go make our arrest."

"I'm about to, Fred."

"'I'?"

"Frederick Gibson, I am placing you under arrest on the charge that on September 21, 1981 you did directly cause the death of Karen Simmons, contrary to common law. You have the right to remain silent…"

Stella Gibson scanned the crowded viewing area above the competition pool for Daddy, he'd promised he'd come. She glowered into the sea of proud families and friends for his face and the rounded crown of his officer's topper. Nowhere.

"Stella, really, don't look so glum, first place is nothing to be down about, so what if you didn't beat your personal best this time?!"

"It's not that, Jen, Daddy promised."

"Well, isn't that Detective Hart, right there?"

Sure enough, the ridiculously cute Noel Hart was coming toward her and Stella couldn't even enjoy his striking green eyes or the way he looked in his uniform, because Noel Hart in uniform without her father was a terrifying sight. Thirteen year old Stella wasn't even thinking about the fact that her shoulders were slightly inwardly rotated, making her already challenged bust-line even more pre-adolescent. Something was wrong, her precocious flirtation forgotten as her heart beat hard and afraid beneath the deep blue competition bathing suit and she thought for sure it would thump right out of her chest any moment.

"Wh… where's Daddy?"

"Stella... "

"Where's Daddy, Noel? Where's Daddy!?"

Noel felt like a fool for not realizing before now that, of course, Stella would think the worst had happened, her father had been seriously injured or killed in the line of duty. In fact, the reality was probably worse than death.

"He's safe, Stella… back at the station. I need you to come with me."

She didn't even change, simply yanked on her team warm-ups and jumper over her wet suit, grabbed her bag, and ran ahead of Noel toward the side doors that would let her out into the frigid late autumn air.

"What is it, Noel?"

"Stella, I really cannot say much more until we're at the station and we've found an appropriate adult."

"What? You make it sound like you are questioning me… are you questioning me?"

"Stella, I can't say more."

They rode in silence to the station, Stella was escorted to a witness interview room and left with a Coke and a pastry while they waited for an appropriate adult to arrive. She knew she hadn't done anything wrong, she was a good girl and her father was a detective, she'd never make trouble for him or embarrass him with petty thievery or tagging or the other common teenage misdemeanors. He couldn't be in trouble… could he? A suspect, of course, it had to be, someone who'd broken the law was trying to get away with a crime by accusing her father of something. A short knock at the door brought her out of her revery.

"Stella, my name is Joanne Blake. I'm going to stay with you while the police ask some questions and make sure you understand your rights."

"My rights? I haven't done anything, I swear."

"You aren't being charged with anything, dear, the police just have some questions for you."

Stella turned her attention to Noel and a female officer that was relatively new, Irene, she thought. They sat across from her at the low table and Stella felt her brows knitting together tighter and tighter in confusion.

"Stella, we need to talk about September 21st of this year, can you remember back to then?"

"Um, maybe… what about then?"

"That was a Monday, Stella, can you just start with telling us about your day?"

"I went to school and then I would have gone to the pool for swim practice, there was a meet that Saturday, so it would have been an extended practice and I would have gone straight home afterwards to make dinner- that would have been maybe seven in the evening."

"What time did you leave for school? Did you return home for lunch that day?

"I get up at five and have ballet on Mondays, I leave at 5:30 am. I don't remember if I went home for lunch, usually I go to Jen's house because she lives closer."

"Was your father at home when you woke up that morning?"

"I don't remember, he usually is."

"What did you make for dinner that night, do you recall?"

"No."

"Alright. Stella, was your father home when you got home that night?"

"I don't think so, he usually doesn't get in til around eight on a normal day."

"A normal day?"

"A day he doesn't have to work late for something."

"What time do you usually go to bed by, Stella?"

"Um, usually by ten, because I get up so early, you know?"

"Right. Did you sleep all night, do you think? Was your father at home all night?"

Stella took pause, she was relatively certain that night had been one in which she'd woken from a nightmare and went in search of the comfort of her father's arms… only to find that his bed was still made and there was a note for her on his pillow, explaining he'd gotten a call and would return as soon as he could.

"I… I don't remember."

The detectives exchanged a glance, both thinking, yes, she does.

"Are you sure?"

"What? Yes… no… I don't remember."

"Did you ever wake up at night and your father wasn't there?"

"Sometimes, of course, he would get called at night… so did you."

"Stella, if he was gone the night of September 21st, he wasn't at work. Do you recall any other specific nights that he told you he'd been called in for an investigation?"

"No, not specific nights."

That was the truth, she didn't add that it would be easy to find out as after that first time she'd awoken in the dark, alone, he'd been careful to always leave a note for her… habitually dated from his years of police work. She'd fallen into the habit of keeping all these notes in an old hat box, along with other treasures and trinkets he sometimes left for her just because.

"We're going to show you some pictures, Stella, the first set are photographs of people, please say so if you recognize anyone."

"Okay."

She leaned forward and looked carefully as the array unfanned before her. They were all women… and very similar looking, how was she supposed to tell one from the other? They weren't extraordinary in any way, she could have seen any or all of them a hundred times and wouldn't have known it. Wait….

"Wait… that last one. She's the one from the papers, isn't she? The one everyone thinks was killed by the…"

She understood suddenly, the realization hitting her like a freight train, they thought Daddy had something to do with this woman's murder. That meant that all these other women… No, it couldn't be, Daddy wouldn't do something like that, he protected people, not hurt them. Detective Hart swept up the photographs quickly, sharing another look with the other officer.

"The next set are depictions of objects, please say if you recognize anything."

Stella could feel the blood draining as Noel laid out the next set of pictures before her… she knew everything, intimately, gifts her father had left for her to find. She pushed her chair back suddenly and vomited, resting her head on her shaking knees.

"That's enough."

Noel turned to the appointed special advocate for children.

"Of course, we will need to interview her again, though, tomorrow."

Stella didn't move, her thoughts were swirling violently in her head, nothing made sense. The sound of the ocean thudded in her ears, she was hot and cold at the same time and felt like she was trying to breathe through cotton wool. This was not happening, it couldn't…


	6. Parents are Real People, Too

The room was stuffy, the bed rickety, the mattress hard and flat, the sheets scratchy, the blanket thin and rough. Stella lay awake, eyes gazing into the dark, tears making their way from those over-worked eyes to the sad pillow under her head. They wouldn't allow her to return home after interviewing her about her father, instead turned her over to a care home until which time as a suitable guardian could be found for her. She wouldn't be going home, Daddy wouldn't be coming to rescue her, to swoop in with his strong hands and take her away from this nightmare… because the nightmare was his own creation. She felt like she was going to die, like she was already dead. She deserved to die, even because, she was responsible for at least five of those pictures that had been laid out before her…

 _It was bright and clear and Daddy had the top down on his old convertible. Eight year old Stella had complained at first, the wind would whip her hair all over and it hurt- and trying to unlock all the tangled curls later on REALLY hurt! Daddy grinned and pulled a silk scarf from his jacket pocket, blue like her eyes, and tied it over her long curls. From a back pocket on his jeans appeared a pair of large, black sunglasses that he settled on her face. He popped a kiss on her freckled nose and told her she looked like a movie star. Grinning ear to ear, Stella jumped into the passenger seat, and they were off the "summer place"._

 _The summer place was a little cottage on the shore, wind battered, but all theirs for two months every year. Two blissful months where she didn't have to share her Daddy with anyone else. They lounged, swam, lounged some more, sat on the dock and compared sun tans…_

" _I win."_

" _It's not fair, you make me wear that stinky white stuff all the time!"_

 _He'd laughed loudly at her outburst and tugged her to him, holding her close, breathing in her sweet summer scent of popsicles and Coppertone. Stella would be burnt redder than steamed lobster if he let her run along the seaside without the stuff._

" _Perhaps, one day, you will have so many freckles that you will look brown, too."_

" _Daddy! That's not funny."_

 _A few weeks into their holiday, Stella was woken from a dead sleep in the middle of the night by heavy pounding on the door. She had pulled the covers over her head and was trying to make herself as tiny as possible when heavy footsteps entered her room, the overhead light flicked on and big hands grabbed the blankets off of her. She stared up, blinking furiously at a large police officer standing over her._

" _You're Stella, right? Don't be scared, I'm sorry, you need to come with me, sweetheart."_

 _The police station was dimly lit in the night, only the absolute necessary bank of lights were on and everyone seemed half-real. Stella, still in her pajamas, clinging to her teddy bear, sat on a couch in a children's interview room with a paper cup of lukewarm chocolate on the coffee table before her. Where was Daddy? He hadn't come to the station in the police car with her… had he gone out while she was sleeping?_

" _Hi Stella, my name is Jamie, can we talk for a bit?"_

 _She looked up, Jamie's name badge said, Duncan, he was trying to be her friend, she recognized the tone and she wasn't in the mood for a new friend at this hour, she just wanted to know where Daddy was._

" _Where's Daddy? Is he okay?"_

" _He's fine, darlin', some officers are talking to him in another room."_

" _My name is Stella… not 'darlin'."_

" _Sorry… Stella. Did you know that your daddy went out tonight?"_

" _No."_

" _Does he often go out at night?"_

" _I'm sleepin' at night, I don't know."_

" _Have you ever woken up and he's not there?"_

" _He's a police officer, sometimes he gets called at night."_

" _And, he leaves you alone when that happens?"_

" _I'm eight, I'm not a baby."_

" _Hmm. Okay. Has your daddy ever talked about a woman he knows or would like to know?"_

" _No, he doesn't need anyone else, he has me."_

" _Has he ever brought anything home after he's been out at night?"_

 _He often brought Stella trinkets after he'd had to leave her at night, but Stella wasn't stupid, she knew that tone and knew that specific of a question couldn't be just grasping at straws._

" _No."_

" _Has he ever hurt you at all?"_

" _No."_

" _Not even a spanking? Never boxed your ears?"_

" _No."_

" _Okay then, well, let me go talk to the other officers. Are you okay here for a bit longer? If you're tired you can lay down and sleep, if you'd like."_

" _I'm fine."_

 _In another room Frederick Gibson was relieved to hear that officers had gotten Stella, that she was safe, though unhappy. He'd been picked up after entering the home of Beatrice Noble, his favorite this year, the one he had plans for, being this close was so tempting that he'd been driven to visit when he shouldn't have and he'd gotten caught. He was deftly explaining to the officers that he'd been out for a stroll in the night, needed to clear his head after so many days in a row with his eight year old daughter- kids, he'd chuckled, gotta love 'em, but sometimes you just need a moment, right? Anyway, he'd been on the way to an all night shop for a pack of smokes and seen suspicious activity in Noble's home, being an officer himself he knew that he was out of his jurisdiction, but the call to duty never stops. He'd investigated, picking up the cameo they'd found on him as it'd been tossed on the floor… his copper's mind thought perhaps an intruder had dropped it after hearing him enter, leaving in a panic. They should be sure to dust it for prints._

 _They'd swallowed his story and released him and Stella in the early hours of the morning, they'd stayed another ten days and left for home early. That was the last summer they spent at that cottage… that was the year that Beatrice Noble had been discovered by her housekeeper on the 23rd of September, she was estimated to have been dead for two days…_

Fresh tears ran down Stella's face, if she'd told the truth, that Daddy left many nights and he almost always came home with small offerings of devotion and adoration for her that he couldn't possibly have purchased from an all-night shop in their small suburb… maybe those women, from Beatrice Noble to Karen Simmons and the three in between would still be alive. But, they were dead and it was all her fault, just as much as it was his. It was the first time in her life she realized that her father was a real person and she didn't like it one bit; now being caught between her worship of him and her horror at what he'd done.


	7. As Long As She Could Swim

Just another Tuesday, the garden club in the early afternoon and Bible study later this evening, Mary Christine Ellis thought maybe she'd finally get to the attic and sort through some of those boxes her brother had unceremoniously dumped on her doorstep while he was going through their parents' estate. Then that knock… oh, that knock. She hadn't been expecting anyone but it wasn't uncommon for Roma Goode to stop by for tea and sympathy. She would have preferred listening to another one of Roma's long-winded diatribe over what she was greeted with… a pair of plain clothes detectives she thought at first were salesmen.

"Mrs. Ellis?"

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Mary Christine Ellis? Wife of Grady Frederick Ellis, Senior?"

Her blood chilled at his name.

"Yes… What's this about?"

"You have a son by the name of Grady Frederick Ellis, Junior?"

"Yes, I had a son."

"May we come in?"

"Yes, of course."

Sitting uneasily at her dining table, Mary shook as she offered up the kettle and milk and sugar.

"Are you aware that your son has been living outside of London, employed as a detective by the local municipal?"

"You have the wrong person, my son was killed as a child."

"No, ma'am. He's lived under the name Frederick Gibson."

Mary's head spun wildly. Over thirty years ago she realized she had to make a decision: be killed by her husband or leave him. She'd waited til his car disappeared around the turn in the road that morning and then yanked the suitcases out from the closet. She had spent all night packing in her head so she knew where everything was and where everything would go. She packed only what was necessary for herself and three year Grady, Jr. and they were on their way down the road toward bus station when Grady, Snr. came down the bend again having forgotten his lunch. When she'd come to off the side of the road some time later he was gone and so was her son. In that time, there wasn't much the police could do and even less they would do. Most of them thought she was in the wrong, an ungrateful housewife stepping out on her hardworking husband, served her right he'd left and taken the boy away from her. A few weeks later a group of school boys who'd been sneaking ale in the woods nearby had come across a pile of bloodied clothing… toddler sized and matching those that Grady, Jr. had worn the day he'd gone missing. The shredding made local constabulary draw the conclusion the boy had run off without his father and been attacked and then eaten by an animal. The case was closed with that conclusion.

"How can you be sure this man is my son?"

"We've been able to access documents in his home that have caused us to draw that conclusion."

"Documents?"

"A birth certificate, ma'am."

"Where is he now?"

"Well, ma'am, I'm afraid we've got bad news. The man known as Frederick Gibson, that we believe is your son Grady Frederick Ellis, Junior was shot to death last Thursday."

She couldn't breathe, she'd just been given her son back and now they were taking him away again.

"In the line of duty?"

"Um, no ma'am. Detective Gibson was on trial for a series of murders taking place over the last two decades. During one of his court appearances the sister of one of the most recent victim was able to smuggle a weapon into the courtroom…"

"Had he done it?"

"We strongly believe so ma'am, there is overwhelming evidence to that fact."

"Why did you come here? I've been living with the belief my son was killed over thirty years ago and you come here to say he's been alive, but that he's dead now. You could have just left me alone."

"Ma'am, there's another reason we've come. I'm sorry for the news, but we needed to find you."

"I don't want his things, I've got enough to deal with having my parents' estate dropped on my doorstep."

"Actually, he already has a beneficiary, but his beneficiary is a minor and that is why we are here, well, she is why we are here."

"What are you saying?"

"Frederick Gibson has a thirteen year old daughter named Stella. Her mother relinquished her rights at her birth and has expressed that she is still not interested in raising the girl. If we don't find a guardian, she will be turned over to a care home until she turns eighteen."

"I… I have a granddaughter?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I can meet her?"

"Of course, ma'am."

Two days later, Mary waited nervously in a meeting room at the welfare office where the social worker managing Stella's case worked. She felt sympathy toward the girl already, but, also, a bit of fear of her. This child had been raised by a serial killer, she'd done some research on the history of the case, read the newspaper versions of each case and was horrified. How had such a sweet little boy become such a monster? Would he have been that monster if he'd not been taken from her? How much was nurture and how much was nature and how much might he have passed on to his own child? She'd been assured the girl had been evaluated by doctors and psychiatrists and would not have been placed in a general population care home had anyone thought she was a danger at all. They didn't believe the girl had known about her father's crimes, and, thought she'd been hesitant at first, she had cooperated with police in all their investigations. Even offering items into evidence that she realized would further support the cases against her father once she'd understood what he was being accused of and that he'd done it. It was difficult, the officers knew Stella, had known her since she was an infant and loved her as their own. The door opened and from behind the social worker emerged Stella…

The blonde teen was quiet and reserved, politely conversational but guarded and wasn't giving an inch; thought Mary. If she'd had any doubts that the evil man she'd been told so much about was truly her son they were dispelled with the vision of Stella. It was like looking in a mirror at her younger self. Mary wasn't vain, but she knew she was attractive still and had been told again and again how lovely she was as a teenager and young adult, it was really only in the last fifteen years that she'd realized she was and had been rather beautiful. Stella shared the flashing blue eyes that she'd also passed on to her son, and the blonde curls that most women spend hours trying to perfect every morning. Stella's full lips were naturally rosy, and would remain so as Mary's had and the freckles dotting her fair face would give her youth for decades to come. She'd probably become frustrated over her soft cheeks as she came into age, just as Mary had, but then she'd look back and be thankful when she saw the passage of time hollow her face gracefully. After finding herself alone, Mary had hardened her heart and become someone who took no grief from anyone, something that she knew was going to help her with the numb teenager before her.

"Well, then, Stella, enough of these silly pleasantries. Would you like to live with me or in the care home?"

Stella's head snapped up and she blinked hard several times and stammered over her reply. Not expecting the syrupy-sweet looking older woman to lay it out for her like that… she'd been expecting there-there's and pats on the head and promises of niceties to entice her to coming with the woman who was supposedly her grandmother. She might actually learn to like the woman, she thought.

"I… I… I could live with you?"

She hadn't meant to sound like a little girl, and the tone of the words made her wince and made Mary fight to stifle a chuckle.

"Well, I didn't come all this way just to say hello and bid you good luck in care."

"Okay, then, Mrs. Ellis."

"I think it would be okay if you called me Mary."

"Okay… Mary."

The nerves were fading away, replaced by the sinking realization that she'd just agreed to take a teenager into her home and into her life. If Stella inherited anything other than her looks, Mary was in trouble. Mary had lost her father at a young age and wound up an unrepentant flirt, she recognized the possibility of history repeating itself… but, if nothing else, she was going to do her damnedest to assure that Stella never attempted to normalize herself by settling for someone who would only tell her he loved her after beating her into submission.

"I'm afraid where I live is even smaller than here, Stella."

"Is there a pool where I can swim?"

"Yes, but no team, no competitive swimming. I'm sorry, I suppose we could manage to go back and forth, or perhaps there's a place nearer that has a team."

"No, I don't need a team, I just need to swim."

What was the point? Stella only competed for the look on her father's face when she won, the way his chest puffed out and his face split into a grin as the officials handed her yet another medal. It didn't matter now. Just as long as she could swim.


	8. Snapping Point

"Fuck!"

The hair tie around her wrist had snagged somehow as she brushed out her hair and snapped back, stinging the tender flesh of her pale inner wrist. It surprised her more than hurt and what was even more surprising was the strange calm she felt inside the reverberating sting. Like it got inside her and made her blood flow a bit smoother… quieted all those things in her mind that kept her awake at night.

She put down the brush and stared for a moment, examining the detail of the band and her wrist, the contrast of the dark rubber against her creamy skin and the blue and green and purple of the veins beneath. She'd considered before, opening up those veins and seeing what was inside. She was a little too adept at swallowing the pain she felt… over realizing her father was a killer… over being taken from him… over losing him. She'd hoped for a fresh start when a grandmother showed up to take her away from the prying eyes, the looks on the faces of everyone around her, wondering just how much she knew about what her father did to women and letting their imaginations run with what he might have done to her. The freshness hadn't lasted long, her womanhood had come upon her and the part of her that accepted the growing up was overwhelmed by the part that'd been violated not three months later.

Stella slowly and rhythmically experimented at a more purposeful snapping of the band around her wrist, the inner flesh was definitely more tender, the sting sweeter. She let the memory come to her and wash over her, as she complicated it with the snapping of the band, letting the pain she caused herself to center and empower her…

 _He was sort of cute, not like Noel Hart, her father's partner wasn't cute, he was beautiful. Ambrose Boyd was cute though, and still had one foot in childhood just like Stella did… and determined to prove otherwise. Stella knew he fancied her, she may have been young, but she wasn't stupid and she was a great observer of human behavior. She let him fawn and pretended to not to notice his ogling stare. He amused her… for awhile, then he became vulgar and that did not amuse her. She was not one of those girls who would blush prettily and giggle nervously at some boy whistling at her. She was not tempted by "accidental" gropings at her body unless she had arranged them. So she'd told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off and leave her be._

 _A few days after her rejection of his school boy advances, she'd been walking home from school at lunch and he'd called to her, told her his younger brother had gotten stuck and she wasn't so stuck up that she wouldn't help a little kid, was she? She'd sighed and followed, realizing quickly but still too late that Alistair Boyd was safely home with his parents and his brother had just trapped her. Stella had drawn herself up to her full height… not much, but she had often been told that her face purveyed an attitude that was intimidating. Unfortunately, Ambrose wasn't intimidated. He'd tripped her when she walked past him to leave and sat down on her._

" _Get off me you fuck!"_

" _Oh, I'm going to get off all right… Stella, little tease, so much better than everyone else… so mature. I'm going to show you what the big kids do."_

" _Get off! I'll tell... "_

" _Oh, but you won't because you wouldn't want everyone to know that you're a helpless little girl… a little cock-tease who doesn't know what to do with a real cock. A silly little cunt who needs a man to teach her."_

 _She'd made it hard for him, but a few slaps a broken arm later he got her skirt up and her panties down and she let herself drift away while he grunted and swore; frothy saliva landing on her face and neck as he finished with her name on his lips. Then, he'd stood up, zipped himself, spat on her bare stomach, and walked calmly out into the afternoon._

 _Stella had gotten herself to her knees before she started vomiting, when she was on her feet she straightened as much as she could and used the heavy forest that ran behind the main street for cover as she stumbled home. In her bathroom she assessed herself with a clinical detachment, an investigative detachment. She stood in the shower, water running hotter than she could really tolerate, and scrubbed the blood and fluids from her belly and thighs and between her legs. She was red and scoured in front of the mirror as she told herself a story in her mind, knowing she needed to go to hospital for care of her left arm. Mugged? No, she needed something that wouldn't draw attention…_

" _I heard a mewing from under the bridge and when I went to slide down the bank, I lost control, my arm stuck in between two roots sticking up. I didn't think and twisted around to try to loosen myself."_

" _That's quite an adventure… did you at least find the animal for your troubles?"_

" _No, it must have run off."_

" _Alright, you'll need to come back in four weeks so I can take another x-ray and we'll decide then if you need another couple weeks in the cast."_

" _Thank you."_

 _Stella walked home, numb and quiet although her mind was loud and humming. She wouldn't tell, Ambrose was right, she wouldn't let anyone see her weak and defiled. She'd also be damned if that happened again, no, Stella Gibson would make men her creatures._

Stella swallowed hard as she broke out of the memory, she studied the deep, red mark the band had made on the thin flesh of her wrist and she smiled slightly. The sting gave her power, allowed her to look in her own mind, to take the jumbled mess she found there and neatly organize and pack each piece. She could take it out, look at it, examine it, and then put it back in its place. She sighed, turned out the light, and slept.


	9. Sexual Prowess

Ambrose Boyd had introduced Stella to the concept of sex as the ultimate weapon, something that could be used against another for the sake of satisfying one's needs and desires without a single thought toward the soul of the other. She'd been sick to her very core, her heart joined her mind with the overwhelming wish to see him humiliated and broken. However, she also found herself rather entranced by the power, not Ambrose's power, that was disgusting, she had no fantasy of being dominated. But, her own burgeoning power as a sexual being enthralled her and she explored thoroughly and often what brought her the most pleasure. When she found herself at university at just fifteen tender years old, she was ready to expand her sexual prowess to include another person and this was where she met Leopold.

She never knew his surname, he was just Leopold, who spoke with a heavy foreign accent and smelled of patchouli and wild fire. Leopold had five younger sisters and was gentle, treating Stella the way he would want his sisters' first times to treat them… lest they desire to then meet his fists in a brother's vengeance. He was only there for a single term, the perfect experiment for Stella, who wanted to avoid affairs with townsfolk who might think she was interested in a long-term arrangement. The years to come would find her exerting more control over her partners. But, for now, she was content to engage in a mutual exploration of bodies.

In the small shower of his studio flat, they were nearly scientific in their initial explorations, her small, pale hands standing out against the dark of his chest… his artist's hands, fingers charcoal-stained brushing over her nipples, they both marveled in the reflex of the rosy skin under his touch. Both their hands had wandered, across faces, through wet hair, over shoulders, down flat and muscular bellies, even lower. Stella would later be surprised at other women's descriptions of painful, fumbling, awkward first time sex… why do it by choice if it didn't feel good? She refused to call Ambrose Boyd her first, he'd tried to steal something from her she hadn't had a name for until after the fact. For a little while, he had effectively taken from her, but she fought and reclaimed that illusive thing and she willingly gave it to Leopold, their moans and sighs mingling.

Still damp from the shower, Leopold guided her to his bed, laying her gently down and settled beside her… not on top of or under her, but beside her. You are young, he'd said, I should not do this thing I want to do. She'd urged him on with her mouth, hot and eager, nipping her way from his mouth to his toes and back again before she nestled in the junction made with his lean legs and feasted on him. He'd stopped her before his climax, he'd been raised to be a gentleman, do not take what you have not given. He sat up and brought her alongside him, slipping a fine-boned hand to her sex and cupped her, resting for several heartbeats, asking permission with his eyes before sliding a single finger between the damp folds. Close your eyes, he'd said, close your eyes and enjoy yourself.

Leopold stroked her slowly as her hips caught the rhythm and happy sighs escaped her full lips. He waited until she asked for more and eased that single finger inside her, she was warm and slick and immediately wanted even more. He added another finger and she moaned softly, humming her pleasure, gently swirling her slim hips in time to his strokes. At the sound of his name falling from her lips, he looked up into pleasure-darkened blue eyes, I'm ready Leopold, please. What else could he do but oblige?

He rolled them over and settled her on his stomach, you control this Stella, he whispered, you are in control. She had grinned and rose up, wrapping a hand around his erect member and staring into his dark eyes as she lowered herself on him… around him. Their sighs matched in pitch and timber, they were still for moments, Stella felt herself adjusting to the invasion, settling into a warm and welcoming envelopment. She moved and eyes fluttered closed, the fire already built in her belly grew wild and consuming, she felt she just might die if she didn't get release. Please, she begged, please… I can't. And, ever the gentleman where a lady's pleasure was concerned, Leopold held her close to his chest and flipped her beneath him without breaking their connection. Her nails dug into the soft skin across his broad back as their pace grew frenzied and desperate.

After, they were still, one beside the other, allowing heart rates to return to normal and blood to recirculate. Leopold rose first, carefully navigating away from Stella, who was sprawled across the bed in a sort of sex-induced haze, her reflexes slow as she revelled in the gentle aftershocks emanating from deep within. That first time she was a bit concerned about the feeling of weightlessness and satisfied apathy… like a cat drunk on cream. She grew to rather enjoy it, those moments after intense physical pleasure of being able to just not care about anything for a while, it became a coping mechanism stronger than the bands she'd been wearing around her wrists for nearly two years.


End file.
